


January: Pathetic Fallacy

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Series: A Figure of Speech [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Anger, Angst, Bitterness, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-31
Updated: 2008-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January is not at all kind to Sean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	January: Pathetic Fallacy

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks to [](http://liars-dance.livejournal.com/profile)[**liars_dance**](http://liars-dance.livejournal.com/), [](http://fawsley.livejournal.com/profile)[**fawsley**](http://fawsley.livejournal.com/), [](http://phantomas.livejournal.com/profile)[**phantomas**](http://phantomas.livejournal.com/) and [](http://gigitrek.livejournal.com/profile)[**gigitrek**](http://gigitrek.livejournal.com/) for UK weather consultation, and to [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/)**savageseraph** (First Among Fishes) for both weather consultation and beta duties, which she always performs with aplomb. ♥

  
_" **[P]athetic fallacy,** the poetic convention whereby natural phenomena which cannot feel as humans do are described as if they could."_  
~From _The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms_ by Chris Baldick.

The problem with London was that when you really needed it to cooperate, it wouldn't. Lifts, tubes, crowds: all forever working against you when you most needed things to move smoothly forward. And of course the weather was the biggest offender, as contrary as it was unpredictable, and Sean had had enough of the mercurial moods of men to have any tolerance reserved for an uncertain and changeable world.

He growled, yanking his hands out of his pockets and flipping his collar up as some small protection against the drizzle of rain that threatened to work its way between jacket, shirt and skin. A woman a few paces ahead, laden down with groceries and a small squalling child, stopped short and blinked at him as he stomped by. He was in no mood for being recognized, not today, and so when some young punk on a skateboard rounded the corner, crashed into his shoulder and flipped him off, all the while shouting something incomprehensible about Sharpe, it was all Sean could do to tamp down the desire to jerk the boy off his board and shake the stuffing out of him.

Instead, he shoved his hands back in his pockets, wishing hard for a patch of ice to materialize underfoot and trip the kid up.

It didn't.

Sean turned away, attention firmly refocused on the route home. He noted with no small annoyance that water was starting to seep in through the soles of his shoes, threatening to bog down his socks. He inhaled deeply, the brisk, slightly sharp scent of ozone barely preceding a lungful of smog and soot as he trudged resolutely homeward. By all rights he should be somewhere warmer, sun and sand and sex offered up on a platter, but the forecast no longer held such decadent delights.

The telly had been kind enough to inform him, over and over, that Viggo was off shooting in some godforsaken country, no doubt spouting Spanish or Danish or Italian or fucking French and charming the local populace en masse out of their knickers. And of course he'd return home with another few languages tucked under his belt and the warm, golden glow of sun-drenched days and humid nights permeating his body.

Where that home was, Sean was no longer certain.

And really, it was no longer his concern. If there was one thing Sean was certain about, it was that Viggo fit best in exotic locales, some Pagan God of desire and debauchery framed in flowers and dirt and the seed of life and all the things that made Sean feel sick whenever he looked out his window and into his yard. Maybe, if Sean was lucky, Viggo'd get lost down there, never to be heard of again. He'd be able to flip through the channels without being assaulted by memories, would be able to go out to a show without being reminded by billboards and newspapers what he lacked.

Maybe he should go back to Sheffield, sell the house here, settle back home. At least there he could count on a little wind and snow, a more fitting counterpoint to his thoughts than endless grey and rain.

Perhaps then he could convince himself that the bitterness that cut through him was the cold; perhaps then he could bury the past in a layer of white, forget it in the search for Spring.

That was the problem with London. It never let you forget where you were.


End file.
